


Swordskill

by Kirsten



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25398658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirsten/pseuds/Kirsten
Summary: Ragnar always knew that his father could fight.
Relationships: Earl Ragnar (The Last Kingdom)/Sigrid
Comments: 14
Kudos: 13
Collections: The Last Kingdom Fanfic Fest





	Swordskill

**Author's Note:**

> Written for round two of #TLKFFF2020 and the prompt: Ragnar Ragnarson, watching his father fight in battle. Thank you very much to the Enablers! You know who you are. <3

For as long as he could remember, Ragnar knew that his father could fight. It was not spoken of, not by his mother Sigrid or Ravn or even Earl Ragnar himself. Thyra did not speak of it, either, but she was barely more than a babe, and she could not yet talk in a language that was understandable. But they all knew that war had entered Earl Ragnar’s home long before Ragnar was born, and it had never left. Shields hung from the walls in their hall. Silver crosses and jewels taken from Christian kings in far-away lands were buried beneath their hearth. Earl Ragnar’s sword was never far from his side, and he cleaned it and oiled it every morning at dawn, before they broke their fasts.

“Why does father clean his sword so often?” Ragnar asked Ravn one night, over supper. “There has been no fighting.”

“You must always be ready for fighting, if you want to be good at it,” Ravn said as he munched on his chicken. “That is why your father cleans his sword every morning.”

“So he is good at fighting,” Ragnar concluded, full of boyish pride in his father.

“Yes,” said Ravn. He took a sip of water. “He is very good at fighting, very good at war. But he does not enjoy it.”

“Why not?”

Ravn smiled at Ragnar with sightless eyes and patted him on the shoulder. “You will learn, I think,” he said. “When you are a man.”

“I am almost a man now,” protested Ragnar, though he had not yet reached his ninth year. Ravn laughed at him and bade him eat his chicken.

That night, Ragnar did not sleep. He forced himself to lie awake, and he only pretended to sleep while Thyra was awake and babbling, and later, when his mother came to check on them. She kissed Thyra’s hand and then ran her hand over his head and through his hair, and then she kissed him on the cheek and whispered, “Goodnight, little warrior.” 

His mother thought he was a warrior. He might have burst with joy that she thought he might one day follow in his father’s footsteps, but he knew he could not react, or she would suspect his plan and forbid it, so he held his face as still as stone until he knew that she had reached her own bed. He listened as his mother and father began to talk in low voices, and laugh with each other, and that was when Ragnar let free his smile and wriggled under his blankets with glee.

He forced himself to be calm and settled himself still and silent so that he would not wake Thyra, until he was sure that his family were all sleeping. It took almost forever. A streak of moonlight shone through the cracks in the wall beside his head and landed on the wall in front of him, and Ragnar watched the moonlight cross one plank, then another, and another. He sighed and turned over onto his side. What could his mother and father be talking about for so long, when they had been with each other all day? Even Thyra was sleeping deeply, and that almost never happened.

The moonlight had crossed another plank of wood before his mother and father fell quiet, and he heard Earl Ragnar begin to snore, loudly. One of the goats below farted, and Ragnar laughed before he remembered to put his hands over his mouth and hold back his laugh. He held his breath and waited, but nobody woke, so he pushed his blankets aside and crawled to the ladder, like a wolf stalking prey. He did not want to wake Thyra; if she woke, she would betray him in an instant. She could not be trusted. She was not his ally in this, or any other scheme.

He climbed down the ladder slowly and carefully, for he did not want to fall; but he reached the ground safely. Then he crept across their hall’s floor, picked his way around the hearth, until he reached the door. It was barred, but that was sure to be no difficulty at all for a young warrior like Ragnar. He flexed his arms and rolled his shoulders to prepare, as he had seen his father prepare to chop firewood, and he sent up a prayer to Odin for strength. Then he reached out and grasped it, shoved his shoulders beneath it, and he heaved. He put his knees into it, and his back, and all the muscles in his body, and still it was a struggle to lift.

Eventually he succeeded, though he was not strong enough to hold it for long. It slipped from his hands and banged to the ground, and Ragnar leapt sideways to prevent his toes from being crushed. He heard muttering above, and Thyra baby-whimpered, as if she had roused. He froze and held his breath.

But nobody came to chastise him and send him back to bed. Ragnar let out a sigh, then pushed open the door, and escaped into the night.

“I did it!” he whispered to himself, and he raised his arms in victory and did a little dance in the moonlight. Then he recollected himself; he was a warrior now, and warriors did not behave so childishly.

Their lands looked different in the darkness, but the night was clear, and the moon was full and bright. Ragnar could clearly see the rock by the stream where Earl Ragnar sat each morning to clean his sword. Ragnar looked around to see where he could hide himself away and spotted their cart. That was it; he would hide behind the cart and wait for Earl Ragnar, so that he could see more of what made his father so good at fighting.

The cart was high and Ragnar had to use the wheels as footholds before he could climb inside it. The bottom of the cart was scattered with sackcloth, and Ragnar lay down on it to wait. 

He sighed deeply and stretched. “I must stay awake,” he muttered to himself.

The next he knew, the sky was pink, and the cart was in motion, and when Ragnar woke himself fully and looked to see where his father was going, he realised that the person who drove the cart was not his father. The man looked thin and mean. He was tattooed with Thor’s hammer and scarred on one arm. He was unknown to Ragnar, Ragnar had never seen him before, and Ragnar opened his mouth and began to shout before they could leave Earl Ragnar’s land.

“Father!” Ragnar screamed, and he scrambled down to the ground and landed with a thump, but he got to his feet and began to run back towards their hall. “Father! Father, he’s taking our cart!”

He could hear the man swearing behind him, and then he heard footsteps as the man gave chase. Ragnar kept running, kept yelling, and when the stranger caught him and grabbed him, Ragnar was not afraid, because his father had come storming out of their hall, big and loud and the bravest man Ragnar had ever known, even in his night clothes.

“Give me my son!” roared his father. His sword was drawn, and his face was full of a fury Ragnar had never seen before. It made Ragnar bold, and he kicked the stranger and bit the stranger’s hand where it covered his mouth, he bit hard until he drew blood and he could taste it on his tongue and feel it running down his chin.

“Shit!” the stranger cried, and he dropped Ragnar to clutch at his fingers.

Ragnar dropped to his knees but immediately got up. He kicked the strange man in the cock and sent him crashing to the ground with a groan, and Ragnar let out a cry of victory and ran towards his father. “He was taking our cart!” Ragnar yelled again, and he skidded to a stop in front of Earl Ragnar and stared up at him, his brave, fearless father.

His father crouched down before him and took hold of him by the shoulders. “Never mind the cart,” said his father. “He was taking you. Are you well, boy?”

“Yes, I am well,” said Ragnar. “I bit him, father, did you see me bite him? I tasted his blood!”

His father smiled. “You are a bloodthirsty little warrior,” said his father, and the pride in his voice made Ragnar stand taller. His father thought he was a warrior, too!

“What are you going to do with him?” Ragnar asked his father.

Earl Ragnar looked over at the man still lying on the ground, still groaning over his cock and his bleeding fingers. Then he looked back at Ragnar. “He trespassed on my lands and tried to steal my property and my son,” said Earl Ragnar. His voice was grave. “I am going to kill him. That is justice. And you are going to watch.”

Ragnar swallowed. He had seen his father shoot a deer in the autumn, and his father had made him watch as life had left the animal’s eyes. Ragnar had dreamed about it for weeks. He had seen dead things before, many times; rabbits and hares and birds for supper, and of course he knew that the goats and the sheep would be slaughtered for food and for sacrifices at times, had even watched it. But he had never stopped to watch death take a wild animal, that had been free.

“Taking life is a serious matter,” his father had said, his face very grim.

“I understand,” Ragnar said, his eyes wide.

“No, you do not,” his father had sighed, before he gutted her.

Ragnar looked at the strange man and he knew that a deer was an important animal, but also that a man was more important than a deer. “Is this like the deer?” Ragnar asked his father, to be sure.

“It is like a hundred deer,” said Earl Ragnar.

Ragnar could barely conceive of so great a number. He watched Earl Ragnar walk over to the still-moaning stranger. “Did anybody send you?” Earl Ragnar asked, and the stranger groaned and shook his head.

“Please do not kill me,” the stranger begged.

“If I do not kill you, everyone will know you were bested by a six-year-old child,” said Earl Ragnar, and he pushed his sword into the stranger’s heart. The man convulsed in pain and then blood started to ooze from his mouth. Then he stopped moving. The change in him was quick.

Ragnar did not speak. His father was silent, too, and very still, until he bent and wiped his sword on the man’s shirt.

“Is he dead?” Ragnar asked.

“Yes,” said Earl Ragnar. “But he has no sword in his hand. He will not go to Valhalla.”

Ragnar swallowed. He knew Valhalla was where warriors went after death. Not going there was bad. 

His father gripped him by the shoulders. “Come,” he said, and he nudged Ragnar back towards their hall, away from the dead man. “It is time for breakfast. And after that,” his father added, in that tone of voice which meant a punishment, “we will discuss what you were doing in the cart at night.”

“I only wanted to see what you do with your sword,” said Ragnar, and he kicked at a stone, for it seemed very unfair that he might be punished when he had only wanted to learn the ways of being a warrior.

His father sighed. “Well,” he said. “I suppose now you have seen.”


End file.
